The Sins of Draco Malfoy
by loubug14
Summary: A series of short vignettes from Draco Malfoy's life at Hogwarts, based on the seven deadly sins.


I.

As he sauntered down the aisle of the Hogwarts Express, Draco Malfoy oozed confidence. He'd waited years to go to Hogwarts and, despite being a first year, he radiated a sense of belonging. After all, he was a pureblood wizard—a _Malfoy_ , no less. He was born to belong; he was born to lead. His place was without question.

So when he found the compartment with Harry Potter—the famous Boy-Who-Lived—he'd offered his hand in greeting. After all, fame like Potter's would be a boon at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. They'd be an unstoppable team.

Of course, the Weasley he was sitting with would have to go. After all, they weren't just blood-traitors—they were _poor_ blood traitors. Draco would be magnanimous—after all, Potter was a half-blood—but even he had to draw the line somewhere.

But he was sure Potter would understand. After all, who would say no to a Malfoy?

II.

It wasn't even about Potter. It was the fact that the Nimbus 2001 had finally been released. And it didn't matter that his parents had bought him the Nimbus 2000 after complaining about the stupid Boy-Who-Lived first year. The Nimbus 2001 was better. Faster. Newer.

He had to have it.

But deep down he knew even that wasn't enough. Because even if he had it, his teammates were still flying on crap brooms. Warrington had a _Cleansweep_ , for Merlin's sake. And there was no way he was losing the Quidditch Cup his first year on the team because of their crap brooms. After all, what did the Nimbus 2001 matter if he didn't get the Cup in the end?

No, he had to have that Cup, and that meant the team had to have new brooms. If he won the Quidditch Cup, he'd be happy. That would definitely make him happy.

III.

Stupid, _bloody_ beast!

Draco clutched his arm as Madame Pomfrey hustled about the infirmary, mumbling _of all the crazy lessons_ and _should have known better than having hippogriffs with third years_ and _I don't have time for Lucius Malfoy to show up here_. Draco, however, couldn't hear her over the pounding in his heart and his own furious mumblings, both fueled by the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Who cared about bloody hippogriffs? Obnoxious beasts, the lot of them. When would a person ever even need to deal with a hippogriff? And stupid Harry Potter, taking off on that crazy beast—why would anyone ever need to fly a hippogriff? It was Potter's fault for riling up the beast, he was sure of it.

And Hagrid… he was a terrible teacher—but what could you expect from a bloody half-breed? He should've never been allowed to teach in the first place!

That stupid beast would have its head on a _pike_ before Draco's father was through with it!

IV.

Draco Malfoy was _not_ looking at Hermione Granger. Absolutely not.

He was not looking at her dancing with that stupid Quidditch player. Viktor Krum wasn't really _that_ good; Bulgaria's other players were just shite, so he looked good in comparison. And Draco was definitely not looking at the way Krum's hand lay at the base of Granger's back, just where the bodice of her silk gown skirted her narrow waist, met her skirt, and draped over her shapely…

Nope. He definitely wasn't looking at Granger. He was looking at Pansy. Pansy was lovely. Pansy, his pretty, pureblood girlfriend, was wearing a proper gown in Slytherin silver.

And Granger was such a fraud, hiding that awful hair in some pile on her head. It couldn't even be tamed for the ball; pieces were falling out along her neck, cascading down to where it met her shoulders, down past the thin, mauve straps of her dress, to her chest, and she was laughing at something stupid Krum had said and then _they_ were right there, moving, the swell of her…

Pansy. Pansy was great.

V.

Draco reclined on a leather couch in the Slytherin common room and nibbled on the biscuits he'd had sent from the kitchen. The perks of the Inquisitorial Squad kept piling on. First, he'd reveled in the ability to take points. Hufflepuffs hugging in the halls? Ten points. Ravenclaws being know-it-alls? Five points? Gryffindors _existing_? Twenty points, twenty-five if it was Granger or Weasley.

"This is a gross abuse of power!" Granger had screeched. "It's not fair! It's not right!"

He'd taken another ten points because her voice hurt his ears.

Was it excessive? Who cared? It wasn't like anyone was going to stop him. And he flaunted the other privileges—staying out after curfew with Pansy, trips to Hogsmeade for 'official Inquisitorial Squad business' (which was really to restock his Honeydukes stash), and now kitchen privileges. If the biscuits he'd ordered didn't satisfy his sweet tooth, he might even call up for a cup of chocolate. A large one. And some more biscuits.

VI.

Days ago, Draco had dragged a worn-out armchair to sit in front of the vanishing cabinet. Now, he sat in that chair, legs spread, and stared at his project. He knew he should be poking and prodding, running diagnostic spells to see what was wrong and how to fix it, but he wasn't. He was sitting, and he was staring.

It wasn't that he didn't know the stakes of this task: he did, and his mother ever-so-subtly reminded him with every owl he received. _You know how much this project means to us_. _Your father will be so proud of you. Don't fail us, Draco_. But he couldn't bring himself to move.

It wasn't that he lacked the proper motivation—no, it was that he knew the consequences of his failure. He'd seen what happened to those who failed the Dark Lord—a low-level lackey had been eviscerated in the Manor's ballroom shortly after his initiation into the Death Eaters—but rather his fear of that failure that led to his inertia.

If he didn't try, he couldn't fail, right?

VII.

Draco stared at them from across the Great Hall while his mother _tsked_ over his wounds. A broken wrist from desperately clinging to Potter's broom over Fiendfyre, a few cuts from falling debris, and one nasty slicing hex from his aunt before the bitch was killed by the Weasley woman. He knew he was lucky to be alive. He knew he should thank his stars that his mother had finally switched sides, lying for Potter to save _him_. He knew his sentence would be lighter for her bravery.

But as his mother healed him and he recognized all the things he had to be thankful for, he watched them. They were huddled together, like always, bittersweet smiles on their faces. They had lost many—the Great Hall was littered with bodies and those mourning them—but those three had survived. Survived and _won_. Draco watched as Granger, crying and laughing, hugged Weasley. Then she turned to hug Potter and pulled Weasley back in for an awkward group hug. They acknowledged and congratulated others who walked by, but they were clearly lost in their own world of three. The smiles they gave each other—'It's finally over,' Draco saw Potter mouth in disbelief—shone. And Draco wondered back to that first day, if he hadn't insulted Weasley, if Potter had taken his hand, if he would be there with them.

And despite all he had to be thankful for, Draco wished like hell the last seven years had been different.


End file.
